


Brief Encounter

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Angst and Feels, Concussions, Crack Treated Seriously, Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Literary References & Allusions, London, Melodrama, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Post-Break Up, Post-War, Post-World War II, Rain, References to Canon, Season/Series 07, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26445004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: I was Tumblr-prompted for a scenario with Andrew and Sam in which one is asked, implicitly or explicitly, to remember the other. And because I have seen too many Hollywood melodramas too many times (and have a deep and unapologetic love for bothRandom HarvestandBrief Encounter, the influences of which can be seen here), this is the result.I feel that I ought to apologize to this fandom for bringing sensationalism into its well-ordered collective life, but here we are. This diverges from canon around the time ofThe Eternity Ring,but I've done my best to keep the characters plausible in an implausible situation.
Relationships: Andrew Foyle/Sam Stewart, Sam Stewart/Adam Wainwright
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	Brief Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> If rain and angsty romance make you crave Rachmaninov's 2nd piano concerto, you can find that here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4zkc7KEvYM

Sam is late for her work at the Ministry. She stands on the pavement with what feels like half the population of London, elbows tucked into her sides, umbrella held obstinately aloft, hat brim drawn down. She squints miserably through the curtain of September rain that had descended so suddenly, wreaking havoc on already unreliable bus schedules. Sam sniffs. She picks her feet up out of the wet, one after the other, trying to keep her shoes from getting sodden. She will not be able to replace them this winter. 

The accident happens on the other side of the street. Sam hears it before she sees anything: the almost-musical protest of brakes, the sudden shouting of too many people, the belated blaring of a horn.

“He fell — he was pushed — there was a woman — should never have taken the corner that fast — ” The crowd around her is full of comment. Sam winces, and holds very still while the policeman at the intersection blows his whistle. With sobering swiftness, the morning moves on. The pedestrians are allowed to cross. Motor traffic navigates carefully around the taxi whose driver stands beside it, twisting his cap in his hands. Sam catches her breath before starting across the road. Her father’s response to accidents had always been the same, whether they were paragraphs in the paper, incidents in the street, or wireless bulletins about the other side of the world. _Dear me, those poor people. Let us say a prayer._ Sam gives a careful berth to the men who are forming a stretcher-hold. _Dear me,_ she thinks, _that poor man. I must say a prayer._ And then she sees his face.

Sam continues crossing; she has no desire to waken the ire of her fellow Londoners. Then, when she has reached the pavement, she turns around and marches back across the street. Mud splashes over her shoes.

She is very aware of her own pulse, the blood rushing in her ears, her heart unruly in her chest. The Ministry seems a very distant duty. She follows the little procession into the chemist’s shop. As the bell jangles after her, she realizes that she has no plan for what she is going to say.

“We’re closed,” says the chemist.

“It weren’t my fault,” says the taxi driver to the policeman.

“There’s been an accident,” intones the policeman discouragingly, with a glance in her direction.

“It’s all right,” says Sam, clutching her handbag in both hands. “I know him.”

There is a moment’s uncertain pause, and then the policeman and driver resume their tense colloquy, while the chemist turns back to his work. Sam sidles closer to the little group, her eyes on the man recumbent in the chair, who is so alarmingly still and pale.

“Easy,” says the chemist, holding sal volatile a few inches from his patient’s face. “You’ve had a shock.”

“Stepped right in front of me,” says the driver, half-wailing.

“Knocked down in the street,” says the chemist soothingly. “But no appearance of serious injury, I’m happy to say.”

“I…” says Andrew, and then his eyes meet hers. “Sam, thank God!”

She ignores the driver and the policeman; she ignores the chemist; she ignores the fact that her handbag will collect dust on the floor and that she’s probably torn a stocking in going to her knees. She puts out her hand, and Andrew grips it. Sam is very conscious of the movement of his thumb over her knuckles, the seam of her glove that is giving way, the wedding ring that sits cold against her finger.

“Wasn’t sure you’d recognize me,” says Sam softly. She is very conscious of having aged since she first knew him, of being an anxious housewife in a shabby coat, a very different person from the girl who drove and mended cars and fearlessly teased an RAF pilot.

“Know you anywhere,” says Andrew, sounding impossibly fond. His eyes seem too large in his face.

“Are you sure he’s all right?” demands Sam.

“As I can be.” The chemist is regarding them both with an indulgent eye. “How are you feeling, sir?”

“I…” says Andrew, still looking at Sam. “I had an unlucky knock, I expect. Head aches. I’ve had worse.”

 _Oh, Andrew_ , thinks Sam.

“It weren’t my fault,” says the driver again.

“Yes, all right,” says Andrew, before the policeman can interpose; “I’m sure he’s right. I’ll be all right in a minute.” As if to assure the assembled company of this, he sits up. Wincing, he begins to stretch and brush off his sleeves. And then he stops. “Sam,” says Andrew, suddenly very earnest, “why am I in civvies?”

She can feel the blood drain from her face, even before she feels the silence in the chemist’s shop change. Outside, the rain still beats against the windows. Sam moistens her lips, and swallows. “Andrew,” she says very quietly, “the war’s over. It’s 1946.”

“Oh,” says Andrew, a little blankly. “Oh, that’s… well, we clearly aren’t living under the Nazi yoke, so that’s all right.” No one laughs. “Look,” says Andrew, “I’m sure that’ll come right, I was just…”

“Are you quite sure of yourself, sir?” asks the policeman gently.

“Oh, far too sure of myself,” says Andrew, with false briskness. “Just ask her.” Sam blinks away tears. “Andrew Foyle, sometime poet, sometime pilot, ex-student, future something-or-other.”

“In the City,” whispers Sam.

“Ah,” says Andrew. “Eminently plausible. You see, she’ll have me right in no time. We haven’t got two adorable children that I’ve inexcusably forgotten, by any chance?”

Sam drops his hand and scrambles to her feet, as though that would help her confront this astonishing suggestion. “No.” The word emerges almost soundlessly. 

“Ah,” says Andrew again, and something in his tone makes her think that he is, as usual, seeing far too much in her face. “Tactless of me. Look — ” he stands up, and sways only slightly on his feet — “we’ll go, and I’ll make my apologies, and we’ll have tea and buns, and she’ll forgive me far too quickly because she always does, and I promise on my honor that I will trot dutifully round to Harley Street if I haven’t recovered complete awareness of the date and year by this time tomorrow morning. All right?”

“If you say so, sir,” says the policeman. “Madam.” The chemist, still frowning, hands Andrew an attaché case that shows evidence of its recent acquaintance with a London gutter.

“Hm,” says Andrew, taking it. “Lends an air of artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.”

 _Well_ , thinks Sam, _it can’t be so bad as all that, not if he’s quoting The Mikado_. Because she knows he will not ask for her support, she goes to his side and slips her arm firmly through his.

“That’s better,” says Andrew. He smiles down at her, and Sam thinks it is unfair, that he should still look at her like that. “Marvelous feeling of security. Sam, that is a truly unfortunate umbrella; is it the only one we have? Well, never mind, come along. Don’t worry, gentlemen,” he says, and Sam’s heart skips at the dreadful familiarity of Andrew being airy and brave and still transparent to her. “ _Omnia vincit amor_. And the rain’s letting up.”

* * *

They walk in step and in silence. Sam tries not to think about the familiarity of her arm through his. She tries to think of something to say.

“Sam,” says Andrew, when they stand at the next crossing, “what is it?”

“What…” The light changes, and she steps out first into the street, fiercely glaring at the halted, gleaming taxis as if daring them to come on. “Andrew, you cannot be suggesting that I shouldn’t worry about you.”

He does not answer for a moment; when she glances up at him, he is smiling softly to himself. “You accused me of making you go grey very early in our acquaintance, as I recall.”

“With good reason,” retorts Sam, and then realizes what he has said.

“You see, Sam,” he continues, “there’s no Awful Blank… that I know of, anyway. I’m quite sure that I share an office with an amiable chap with red hair. Looks like something out of a Dickens novel. Always eating apples, always has oil on his handkerchiefs from mending his motorbike. I couldn’t tell you his name,” adds Andrew. “You see, it’s like that — fuzzy around the edges.”

“Here’s a Lyons,” says Sam, and steers them into it. Andrew puts down the umbrella. “The catch sticks,” she adds; but he is already shaking his hand as he pulls it away, sucking his thumb with a rueful expression.

“I’ll get the teas,” offers Andrew; “I’m reasonably sure that I’m not insolvent.”

“You can give me the money for them,” says Sam, “and sit down before you faint.” With uncharacteristic docility — or has he changed so much, in the lost twelvemonth since she last saw him? — he fishes in his pocket, and hands her a superfluity of loose coin. 

In the orderly queue, Sam takes deep breaths, and does not cry. These are her achievements. She cannot quite come to terms with the fact that, suddenly, she is with Andrew Foyle in a tea shop. Everything she says seems somehow wrong, forced out past awareness of the things she must not say.

“I put three sugars in yours.”

He opens his eyes, and smiles. “Thank you.”

She raises her own cup to her lips, sets it down a little unevenly in its saucer. “A year, Andrew,” she says, her voice shaking. “More than a year. And the war…”

“Sam.” She pulls her hand back into her lap; he leaves his on the table. “I know. I can’t explain it. And I can’t… I don’t know why I haven’t lost _more_ , or why it seemed so wrong not to be in uniform. That’s one for the trick-cyclists, possibly. It… it seemed right that you were there. Why were you?”

If he were agitated, she thinks, or defensive, or even more anxious, it would be easier to put him off. But she cannot resist his gentleness. “I was crossing the street,” she says in a small voice. “And then I… I saw that it was you.”

“Your penchant for racy and elliptical narrative has not deserted you.” Andrew drinks his tea, and Sam tries to look merely grave and solicitous, rather than helplessly affectionate. “Coincidence, then,” says Andrew slowly.

“Or providence.”

He grins at her then, suddenly open, though he sobers again quickly. “You’ve never been anything but honest with me, Sam, so I won’t insult you by asking for honesty now. But don’t… don’t, for heaven’s sake, try to spare what you believe to be my feelings or my condition.”

Sam swallows. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me how we stand, Sam.” She draws in breath sharply. “I promise not to interrupt, and I promise not to apologize or explain. I’m sure…” his voice catches slightly… “I’m sure you were quite right, whatever you did.”

Sam forces a smile. “I wish I were.” She grips her hands together in her lap. “Well. I won’t give you a line about wartime romances.” She takes another deep breath, and waits for this to become easier. “We were both rattled, I think, by the war. Not quite sure of what we were supposed to do afterwards, or… or how we were supposed to do it. I think the phrase is ‘parted by mutual consent.’ We were so _close_ ,” says Sam, with a kind of desperation. “And there we were, with all our nerves raw, and nothing certain, and everything seemed impossibly difficult. Perhaps it would have been different, if we hadn’t been so determined to think things through rationally.”

A muscle tightens along Andrew’s jaw. “I always did rather envy the chaps who were able to get through without thinking. Sorry, that wasn’t intended as an interruption.”

“It wasn’t,” says Sam unhappily. “That’s all there is to tell.”

Andrew is still very pale; he musters her thoughtfully. “And we don’t… see each other.”

“No.”

That tic along his jaw again. “I know I said I wouldn’t apologize, Sam, but my God, I must have been an ass.”

She smiles tremulously. “I didn’t think so.” 

“Hm. And?”

“And what?” She lifts her teacup very carefully in both hands.

He shakes his head slightly. “And you followed me into a chemist’s shop, and you said it was providence. And I was sure of you as I was sure of nothing else.”

Sam closes her eyes briefly. “Andrew, I’m married.” For many men, she knows, it is instinctive to assess a woman’s hands, to make a gold band marking possession the thing that defines how they speak to her. She finds it somehow terribly moving that Andrew hasn’t even noticed. He does not look at her hand, even now, to seek confirmation. He looks at her, and he looks as though he’s been struck. “Aren’t you going to wish me happy?”

“I… yes,” says Andrew. “I do. Of course I do. Only…”

“Only what?”

“Only you don’t look it.”

She turns her head away; she tells herself she’ll be all right in a minute.

“Oh, Sam,” says Andrew, “please don’t cry.” She does not answer; but she takes the handkerchief he holds out to her. After another minute, he adds: “Do you want to get out of here?” Wordlessly she nods. She manages to struggle halfway into her coat before he holds out the remaining sleeve for her.

“I didn’t want to go back to my parents,” says Sam softly, when they are on the street. “I was a secretary for a time. And an artist’s model — I know. I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself I didn’t mind. But I did. And then there was Adam.”

“Ah.”

Sam sighs. “He’s… he’s a good man.” When Andrew does not speak, she glances up at him, and hastily away again. “We work well together,” says Sam, scrupulously fair. “And it’s so dreadfully _familiar_. Sometimes it feels strangely as though things have happened before: serving dinner with cabbage that isn’t cooked quite right, and not making quite the right impression, and — and doing the mending, and doing the _ironing_ , and being dutiful, and…”

Andrew steps abruptly aside into a court. Halfway down it there is a sign for a tobacconist’s. The noise of the London street seems suddenly distant. “Sam.”

She looks up at him, wretched and expectant. “Sam,” says Andrew again.

“No,” breathes Sam, and she can hear the lack of conviction in her own voice. Andrew sets his briefcase down at his feet, and carefully folds her shabby umbrella.

He raises one hand to wipe away her tears. “May we see each other? You aren’t saying no to that?”

Sam swallows hard. “No,” she says, resolute. “No, I’m not.”

His tongue steals over his lips. “Thank you.”

Sam takes a shaky breath. “After the war…” She stops.

“Yes?”

“After the war,” she says, “I ignored the rules I was taught and my own instincts, and it made me miserable. The artist,” she adds. “And then… and then I have done everything _just_ as I ought, and it has made me more miserable still. And I know that it matters, that it must matter, but I can’t…”

“Quite feel it, somehow,” finishes Andrew softly.

“Yes.” He takes one step towards her, and stops. Sam finds another line from _The Mikado_ running madly through her head: _This is what we’ll never do: this, oh this, oh this…_ She closes the distance between them, and tilts her face up to him, closing her eyes. His hands come to her waist, warm and familiar, and she can smell his cologne and feel his breath and still he waits. “Yes,” says Sam again.

 _Madness_ , thinks Sam. _The songs and the poets were right, and this is madness and intoxication, and nothing good can come of it, and I can imagine doing nothing else._ When he draws back from the kiss, she can hear his breathing, loud and unsteady. She savors the taste of him on her mouth, committing it to memory. And then she opens her eyes; his, on her, are dark and enormous.

“Sam?”

“Andrew, I haven’t felt…” _known, loved, seen_ … “like that in ages, and we can’t.”

“Sam.”

“I know.” She wipes away her own tears. “I can’t… I cannot imagine loving another human being as I love you, and we can’t.”

“All right,” says Andrew, and his voice is rough. “Just tell me… Sam, you’ve saved my life; I don’t mean literally, and I don’t mean just today, but you have. Just tell me what you want.”

“What I _want_!”

“All right,” says Andrew again. He holds out the umbrella, and she folds her hands over his. “Tell me what you’ll allow.”

“Tea,” says Sam. “We can… we can have tea again. Next Thursday?”

“Yes.”

“And…”

“Anything, Sam.”

“May I ring you? Tomorrow? To see how you are?”

He smiles; somehow it does not make his expression less sorrowful. “There we are,” he says, examining a card before holding it out to her. 

Sam folds the flimsy economy paper — _Andrew Foyle, Harmon & Fitch, Ltd._ — carefully into her handbag. “Thanks.” She swallows hard. “We’ll both be late for work.”

“We have the best of excuses,” says Andrew, without mirth and without irony. 

“Yes. Oh, Andrew!”

“It’s damnable,” he says, almost cheerfully. “But it’s infinitely better than not having seen you again.”

“Yes,” says Sam again. She wonders if it is the memory of wartime partings that makes it so hard to contemplate letting him out of her sight.

“I must go,” says Andrew, and she wonders if he is remembering the same desperate bravery of farewell. “I must go, and I mustn’t look back. I’ll be all right,” he adds. “It’ll be all right, Sam.” 

As at so many partings before, she finds herself wishing she could believe him.


End file.
